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The land cried out for all those who had dispersed from its shores. The old woman sat on the wooden stool knitting with a tear in her eye, blistered hands trying to work a delicate pattern into shape. It is for her grandchild, half a world away. The seeds of a generation lost to this land, who had taken root in another. Here was her life and her world; she could not go with them. She was lucky – she still had family with her. But like the land, while it lessened the loss and the ache, she still missed them.